


“i’ll wait.”

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [23]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Author projecting onto George Mukherjee, Autism, Autistic!George, Falsettos References, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, asc, asd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: George is coiled tighter than a spring about to break and Alexander wants to know why.Canon Era.Written for the twenty-third prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/George Mukherjee
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	“i’ll wait.”

* * *

All day, George has been on-edge.

Last night, he was contemplative all through societies, Prep, and dinner. When George is contemplative, it is because there is a new case for the Junior Pinkertons. Of course, this had me looking about all evening, trying to find exactly what had him so transfixed. However, I could not find anything that caught my eye a jot. It seemed as though he was focused on something I could not see.

* * *

Today he is coiled as tight as a spring at breaking point, all with anger. For some reason, he hates the world, England, Weston, everybody inside it, and me. Nothing is not glared at, spat at, or sworn at.

During history is when I notice that something is drastically wrong. When he is irritated with something, he stews with the problem inside his mind. Rarely does the issue venture into the real world in any capacity beyond murderous glares. 

That is why him suddenly snapping a pencil when our teacher was out of the rook was so astonishing to me. “George!” I hiss under my breath.

“Alexander Arcady, shut the fuck up or I will clout you over the head with Twining’s flask so hard that you’ll land in the middle of next-Wednesday’s literature exam.”

It is said in cold tones, not a trace of anything but absolute and genuine sincerity.

I do as he bids.

* * *

The coil of anger snaps after Prep.

After Prep, we are allowed to go about the school and do as we please until dinner. I could barely focus on my Prep for studying George in front of me, shoulders hunched and so much tension in the base of his neck my own body ached in sympathy.

The two of us walked back to the Fourth Form dormitory side-by-side, George still low in his frosty lull of closed-off emotional turmoil.

As we walk past a group of the oldest boys in the school, Inigo Bly leans over and whispers the most awful word I can imagine.

If it was to happen on any other day, George would draw himself up against them and grace them with a witty and lordly one-liner before continuing on his way.

Not today.

“I say, how dare you?” he bellows, squaring himself up as Bly and his companions walk around the corner, laughing obnoxiously.

All I can think to do is step forward and wrap my around over his shoulders from behind. “George,” I say, keeping my voice falsely jovial, “There is this thing called breathing. I highly recommend that you try it.”

Instead of lashing out at me, I feel his entire body give against me, all the tension from whatever has been bothering him draining out at the contact.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

I realise with a start that, other than yelling at myself and Bly, and answering to his name in the register, he has not spoken once today.

“I’ll wait.”

Together, we walk up to our dormitory in silence.

* * *

The way the Weston dormitories are laid out is two rooms for each half of one form, five beds in each. George and I sleep in the room on the left with three other boys, though the layout of the room means that our beds are quite out of the way of the others, around the corner and behind a jutting partition that means the boys don’t often bother walking around it, instead choosing to call out, “Arcady, Mukherjee, you in here?” to confirm that we are not dead. 

When we reach our corner, I shuck off my blazer, pullover, tie, and shoes, and sit down on my bed.

“George?” I ask. Delicate.

Instead of replying, George sits down beside me on my bed and, after a pause, curls his legs over my thighs, turning his head into my collar and wrapping both arms around my middle. “Alex.”

“What on earth is the matter?”

“Alex,” he repeats, saying the word like a prayer. “Alex, Alex,  _ Alex— _ “

All at once, George breaks. A sob bursts from his throat, the sound as painful as someone in their final moments. His tears dampen my shirt and I can feel his entire frame jerk with the force of his crying as his frame convulses against my own.

Startled by this sudden outburst of emotion, I move to cradle him so he is enveloped in my arms, as safe as I can make him: one arm tight and protective around his middle, holding him close to me, one hand on the back of his head, soothing through his hair with delicate ministrations. “Hey, hey, calm down,” I murmur into his dark hair, moving to press a kiss to his knitted brows. “No one can hurt you. It’s alright, I’m here. Shh, I’m here. I’ve got you. Whatever it is, it’s alright. It’s going to be alright.”

Though he still cries, his sobs are less violent. The shoulder of my shirt is saturated with George’s tears but I cannot find it in myself to care as I feel him shaking against me. Whatever is wrong has him utterly stricken and it is my job — the job I have taken on — to pick up the pieces of whatever has shattered the boy who is as perfect as a beautiful China doll. I pick up singing part of a small roundelay I have got into the habit of singing while doing miscellaneous tasks. “Do you know.... all I want is you? Anything you do is alright. Yes, it’s alright. Do you know.... all I want is you? Anything you do is alright. Yes, it’s alright. Do you know.... all I want is you? Anything you do is alright. Yes, it’s alright.”

I circle the three lines over and over for longer than I care to recall, only stopping when George says, “It is so utterly unfair.”

“What is?”

“You understand things,” he begins. I can tell he’s been rehearsing this in his mind to allow for his usual eloquence. “You understand people. You— you understand social cues, seemingly without needing to be told. Everybody else in the world understands too. Except me. I must teach myself. I analyse, inform, imitate. Everything I do is in order to fit in because, if I acted as I wish to, I could not. It is just so... so unfair that you are normal without effort. I wish I could hate you for it. But I cannot.”

George has always had difficulty. Since I met him and before even then. Issues with perception, sensory stimulation, executive function, fine motor skills.

And, most of all, people.

“I don’t understand anything,” he whispers, sounding more mournful than he ever has.

“You understand me.”


End file.
